Catherine Saunders nodded with satisfaction as her latest arrow hit the target dead in the centre. She adored archery and was presently enjoying an unbroken run of seven perfectly placed shots. She gestured to a waiting boy and he ran to retrieve her missiles.

“I wish you would pursue a more ladylike hobby, Miss Catherine,” her governess complained. Now it was summer she was obliged to stand outside daily whenever Miss Catherine decided to practice.

The boy gave Catherine her arrows. She took aim. “Other ladies do it as well.”

“Those other ladies have learnt it from their brothers,” her governess replied. “You have none. You do not even have sisters.”

Catherine hit her target again. “Miss Havers, you tell me that fresh air is beneficial.”

“I mean walking or sitting reading,” Miss Havers told her. “Not this. It is not suitable for a lady. I have no idea why your father allows it.”

“He found it preferable to my suggestion of fencing,” Catherine replied. She smiled as she remembered her father’s reaction to that.

“Oh, Miss Catherine, I am sure you say these things to tease me,” Miss Havers protested. “Why must you behave in this fashion?”

“I am suffering from extreme boredom,” she replied. She shot another arrow and sighed when it missed. “Now see what you have made me do.”

“I do not see any benefit in this activity,” Miss Havers told her. “None at all.”

“Why should there be a benefit? I see no use in my art and piano lessons,” she said. “It is enjoyable to be sure but little beyond that.”

“Your lessons seek to make you accomplished for the gentlemen,” Miss Havers replied. “Archery does no such thing, as I see it.”

“Miss Saunders! That is not suitable talk for a lady.” Catherine only grinned wider. Teasing Miss Havers was her only source of amusement now her parents spent most of their time in London.

“Perhaps I am not a lady.” She aimed at a nearby wall and looked annoyed when the arrow just dropped to the floor. “What a pity! I was hoping that it would ricochet. Imagine that, Miss Havers, I aim for the wall and still hit the target.”

Miss Havers did not approve. “I must write to your father.”

Can’t concentrate on it but the idea is there! J

And editing my 2010 NaNo novel (still…), an extract:

“”I have a list,” Lord Thomas announced as he entered the prince’s room with Lord Samuel. “I think it to be a sufficiently varied and exhaustive list of single ladies.”

“Well then, continue,” Prince Charles told them.

“First we have the ladies of the court,” Lord Samuel started. They had categorised every lady they could think about (in the nicest possible way, of course). “Lady Matilda?”

“A pretty face,” Prince Charles said. “I like her personality but have misgivings about her suitability as queen. I want somebody who will be interested in my kingship. Lady Matilda seems a little…empty-headed.”

“Lady Joanna?” Lord Thomas said.

“Oh dear, I do not wish to be unkind but there is a reason she is unmarried at 39,” Prince Charles said.

“Perhaps she is just misunderstood,” Lord Thomas said. “She is from a good family and is not unpleasant looking.”

“She throws shoes at servants,” Prince Charles reminded them.

“Good point,” Lord Thomas said. “Lady Beatrice?”

“Not bad,” Prince Charles said. “I like that she is well-versed in poetry and philosophy. I would have no objection if my uncle suggested her.”

“Has potential then,” Lord Thomas made a mark against her name. “Lady Beulah?”

“Is she the one with the, ahem, tail?” Prince Charles asked. They nodded. She suffered from one of the more unfortunate side effects of mixed marriages. Her father was a successful fawn that had been elevated to the nobility. “Ah. I am afraid I must be rather shallow on this one. I know she keeps it hidden under her gown and that she has a pleasant countenance and good brain but it would always be there. Lurking.”

“I quite like the idea,” Lord Samuel said. “Lady Winifred?”

“I like her,” Prince Charles said. “She is witty.”

“Another possibility then,” Lord Thomas said. “Lady Bridget?”

“Isn’t her aunt a banshee?” Prince Charles asked. They shrugged. “Yes, she is. That’s why Lady Bridget shrieks when she senses bad news. I don’t think I could cope with that.”

First day of NaNo done and I have 2,367 words. Not a bad start and I’m enjoying writing my characters. I think it helps that I’ve used them in other novels. They are familiar to me so it helps the words flow.

Once again I have decided to do NaNoWriMo again as I was successful last year.

I am hoping to be successful again this year. I have a title – ‘Obligation’ and a synopsis:
‘1808
Lady Camilla Morris is the sister of an Earl and thus well aware of the restrictions placed upon her by society in terms of love and marriage. She is resigned to her fate and must soon make suitable match. It seems the matter is solved when an old childhood friend, Nicholas Farleigh, Lord Treswick renews his acquaintance along with his matchmaking sister, Augusta. However, she will not submit quietly and is determined to find her own way. A deepening friendship with shy tutor George Blair may be her alternative. Will the desires of her heart triumph over her sense of duty?’

I’d also hoped to have a serviceable outline by now. Unfortunately, procrastination strikes. This is a common problem hence the lack of updates to this blog. The internet is a cruel, cruel master.

Today it’s been the Gaelic lyrics of Runrig. I may not have an outline but I have memorised this – ‘Seinn, seinn, seinn. Oran ur, oran an uir.’

You know, recently I gave up my weekly dose of the many celebrity magazines kicking around. I dare say that it was almost like an addiction. Ok, I admit, it was an addiction. I fully confess that at times failure to obtain said magazines made me stabby. I unfortunately had a problem. However, those times are well gone, hence my ability at present to leave them on the newsagent’s shelf where they belong.

So, how did it all start? After all, my reading of these publications is supposedly at odds with the rest of my interests – history degree, reads the classics, no interest in popular culture. I was the class geek and hopelessly uncool at school. Well, I was at university in my first year. Being at a Scottish university I did a few non-history units at the beginning, in particular the introductory film and media unit. We did a tutorial on advertising in magazines (you can see where this is leading…) and had to bring an example of an advert to the seminar. I was at a loss. I didn’t read any magazines, nor did my friends. So, it was off to the campus newsagents to purchase whatever relevant magazine was on offer (ripping out an advert would have been frowned upon…). I grabbed a copy of Star magazine (cheap with a range of adverts inside. I ended up using an L’Oréal Elvive shampoo advert, if anyone happens to be interested). Not wanting to waste money I also read the thing. Cover to cover. And enjoyed it. Rather like junk food – no nutritional value, bad for you, you feel guilty afterwards yet still strangely satisfying. At the time I was on a diet of tomes on 16th century Scottish history. Star magazine was like a cupcake to a solely salad muncher.

The problem is I appear to have a rather addictive personality and I’m addicted to reading. I could have left it at that one issue but, no, I was lured in again for the next issue. And the next, and the next, until it became routine. I love routine, you see, and hate disruptions to said routine. Once Tuesday became fixed as ‘magazine day’ in my mind I was doomed. I was also unable to stop at one. Star didn’t satisfy my cravings for trash in magazine form, Heat soon joined it then New, Closer, Now and Reveal (I’m sure I’m due a little credit for stopping at six. Seven would have just been too much…). My little hoard of gossip to be devoured at leisure. Justified by declaring it a necessity after a day spent in the library.

To provide context this started early 2005. Kerry Katona was a media ‘darling’ after returning triumphant from the jungle and Jordan and Peter were turning stomachs nationwide with their little lovefest. Along with others such as Victoria Beckham, Cheryl Cole and an endless supply of ex-Big Brother housemates they filled many, many, many pages with their antics. Almost a golden age for the next few years. Why, for me, were they so appealing? It induced a feeling of superiority, or something like that. I was hopelessly addicted, whatever the case may be. To my shame my buying of such publications lasted way beyond graduation but I ended up working for an arsehole so they were a very effective stress-reliever.

Why give up now? Short answer – money and the realisation that I was wasting precious book-reading time. These magazines are not the fiction I desire.

Long answer? Have you read one recently? They’re crap. Fair enough, they’re meant to be crap but now they are seriously crap. I don’t know whether I have changed or the editorial teams but for the past year or so there has been deterioration. The celebs lack the tackiness of past years. No, that’s a lie, there is still abounding tackiness (vajazzle, anyone?). Desperation! That’s it! The ‘Z’ list has become even more desperate than in years gone by. Let’s take a look at the past and present ‘usual suspects’:

There are the old faithful s, such as Katie Price aka Jordan and/or Peter Andre, Kerry Katona, Victoria Beckham, and, in the past few years, Cheryl Cole. ‘Celebs’ such as these are ever-present in the magazines. I made my peace with their ubiquitous nature years ago. Incredible annoying individuals at times but they provide familiarity. Same thing, day in, day out means easy reading. Rather like soaps in paper form.

However, now the magazines are just absolute rubbish. I haven’t yet worked out what’s the difference between the fame-whoring of Jordan, Kerry Katona et al on one hand and that of the various ‘stars’ The Only Way Is Essex and its ilk but there is something. I just cannot stomach them. They are beyond pointless. I rather think we have reached the depths of ‘Z’ list celebrity. I hope we have. I shudder to think how it could sink any lower.

So, three weeks ago I just stopped buying them. In the end it was an easy decision to make. I would read them and not have a clue what was in the issue. I had a general idea because it was very much the same as the week before, and the week before that and not to mention two, three, six months ago. I now thoroughly denounce them as utterly pointless and a complete waste of money. I doubt I have missed much.

Today, I finished Tolstoy’s War and Peace. My edition was in two volumes, roughly equal in length. It took me six months to finish the first volume. It has taken me three weeks to finish the second. That is absolute proof of my overriding reason for ceasing my consumption of celebrity magazines. It was undoubtedly stealing my book-reading time. Now I can be myself again.

Captain Philip Morris lay in his bed on board a ship sailing somewhere in the Indian Ocean. He could hear the water lapping against the hull. Or at least he presumed he could hear the water. The boundary between reality and fantasy had been blurred for many weeks now. He had been in India, he was sure of that, as an officer in the British Army. It was entirely possible he still was; in the army anyway. He did not think he was in India now. No, there was the sound of water. However, that could be the rain. It was monsoon season, he thought. That was why he was so very warm. No, he was hot because he was ill. He had been ill for weeks now and, if he was completely honest, he could not remember being well. He was in a ship and returning to England because there was no need for him to be in India any more. The army had no use for sick men. He was returning to England because he was useless now.

He shifted slightly. There was no comfortable position to be found. The ship was rocking too much, or at least it was in his fevered mind. He was not sure. He was trying not to move as it made breathing difficult and caused red-hot bolts of pain to shoot through his body. He placed his hand on his stomach where the worst of the pain was felt. It was still bandaged. He had forgotten about that. Or had he? It was always bandaged now. He could no longer remember what his skin felt like there. He presumed that he still had skin there. Perhaps that was why bandages were ever present. Panic threatened to overcome him. He did not know whether he was still intact. The army surgeons back in Bombay had taken his skin! No, no, that made little sense. It was not possible to be without skin. But, they had sliced at him with their knives. He remembered that. To remove the bullet, they said. Or the infection? Both, probably. It had happened more than once. He was unlikely to ever forget that. The pain was more than real, even if any other awareness had been suspended. There was always pain nowadays, pain and a mind so clouded he was not certain of anything anymore. Was this to be his life now? He had vague recollections of being told, or hearing, about a miraculous survival. His survival, he supposed, because he did remember being left alone to die. He had been shot and they took him to a room but had then left him. He had called out but they did not return because he was not supposed to remain alive for so long. He had and they were astounded. Then, there was so much pain, more than when he had even been shot, and it had barely abated since. And he was alone again. But not in Bombay. He had to remember that. This was a ship. Weeks, no, months had passed since he had been injured and it was now no longer Bombay. He was alive, he presumed, and returning to England and home.

He was alone. Why did they leave him like this? Nothing made sense and he needed somebody else’s sound mind because his was sadly departed but nobody remained with him. He had a valet. Where was Prescott?

“Prescott?” he croaked.

There was no answer. Where was he? He was sure Prescott was his only friend. Even though he was only supposed to be his servant. But Prescott was the only kind face he remembered. The army surgeons and his fellow officers offered no gentleness because he was in the army and it was not required. Or something to that effect. Perhaps Prescott was resting. He was supposed to be sleeping but that was difficult these days. Rarely did he ‘sleep’ but rather ‘lost consciousness’ due to pain or fever. It was never restful and he seemed to think that is what sleep should be. Still, nobody came. He could hear voices but nobody ever came. Perhaps the voices were only in his head. That was possible. It was becoming a regular occurrence, along with seeing things that were not there. Nothing made any sense anymore.

Maybe he was dead? Was this his personal hell? Or purgatory? He felt that he deserved hell or purgatory. He had killed his mother. No! No! It was not murder, he was only a baby. He did not mean to cause her death by being born. That is what his father assured him. But his brother thought differently. Stephen hated him for that reason. He did not know who was correct. It was too much for his mind to comprehend. A man who caused another man’s death was a murderer. No! A man who deliberately caused another man’s death was a murderer. He did not intend for his mother to die. He convulsively grabbed a handful of sheet. Why did nothing make sense anymore? He had dwelled upon his birth and mother’s death frequently in the recent weeks. It was not helped by the fact that she kept appearing to him. But how could she appear to him when he did not know what she looked like. Who was appearing to him? He struggled for breath again. It was so dark. No wonder he saw things that were not there. Anything could be lurking in the shadows. Perhaps that was where everyone was. Why was it dark? There had been light in Bombay because they could not keep it away but here on the ship they could keep him in the dark. Maybe they thought it would be healing. It was not. It made him feel even more delirious than usual, even when he was not. It was dark, the ship was constantly rocking and he could not see a thing. He would ask Prescott for a candle when he returned. If he remembered. That was unlikely. He felt unusually lucid and he knew that it would not last. The laudanum was wearing off. It was now a choice between coherency and pain or laudanum and blissful oblivion. He was afraid that he would become addicted.

He wondered where the ship was. The passage of time made no sense to him. He had no idea how long it was since he left India. Not that it would make any difference. He could not remember how long the journey was to England. Or did they reach somewhere else first? Perhaps. Not that it mattered. He would not be leaving the ship until England. His ability to stand and walk had long since departed. Along with the capability to do anything else. He was truly useless now. Oh, how he longed to be in England. At least he had his family there. They would not mind if he was weak and infirm.

He dwelled upon the thought of his family. A wife, a son and a daughter. He was fortunate. The thought of them was the only thing that kept him alive. His son would be nearly seven years old now; how he must have grown since he saw him last. And his daughter; he would be meeting her for the first time. Catherine had been pregnant when he had left for India. She should have forgiven him for leaving her by now. He frowned, something bothering at the back of his mind, but soon returned to other thoughts. They could start afresh. Catherine had disliked his position in the army. She seemed to be the only woman not swayed by a uniform. Would Frank remember him? He had to be a better father now. As bedridden he would likely be at least he could now be the husband and father they deserved.

Only one thing worried him about returning to England. It tormented him in his lowest and most painful moments where his mind played tricks upon him. India had been a way to escape his brother. He was returning home weak and defenceless; Stephen would only take advantage. The deliria of the past months had turned his brother from a common bully into a ruthless tyrant. He was afraid that the latter would turn out to be true. What if he ended up at his brother’s mercy? Stephen had the potential to be very cruel.

He thought that maybe he regretted leaving for India. If he had remained in England then he would have been with Catherine when she had died.

Where did that come from?

Catherine was alive. No, she was not. He remembered receiving a letter with news of her death a few years ago. Or did he? Perhaps that was a false memory caused by the fever. No, he would not imagine something so horrible. She was dead. However, he had dreamt of so many other terrible things that maybe this was one of those. She had come to him before. No, she had not. Or she had, but as a ghost. But then, so had Stephen and he was unfortunately very much alive. He did not know! He could not remember if his own wife was still alive! Why must he remain in this continual state of confusion? Would there ever be clarity again?

The door opened and he watched as a candle, seemingly suspended in mid-air, came into the room. He frowned, unsure as to whether it was another hallucination.

“C-Catherine?” he asked, weakly, trying to raise his body from the bed.

The candle came nearer and a familiar face was illuminated. “No, sir.”

“Prescott.” He sank back down. “She is dead?” He could see Prescott sadly nod in confirmation. This had been a frequent occurance in the past months. The captain had often called out for his wife and father (both unfortunately deceased) or worse, imagined their presence.

Prescott put the candle down. It gave Captain Morris the light he had so craved before. He now had something upon which to focus and it helped against the rocking of the ship.

“I called for you,” he said.

“I was resting,” Prescott told him. He placed a hand on the officer’s forehead. “You have been feverish for the past few days. But better now.”

“I am sore,” the captain said. “But I know how you will solve that.”

“I only act on the doctor’s orders,” Prescott replied. It was fortunate that he had been in the service of Captain Morris for many years now otherwise he would object to playing nursemaid. “And he does prescribe more laudanum.”

“I am weary of the fog it causes. Now it is worn off I am almost thinking clearly,” Captain Morris said. “Is it so necessary?”

“We are nearing the Cape. The conditions there are said to be particularly bad,” Prescott told him. “The doctor believes the increased movement of the ship will aggravate your injuries. You will require something for the pain.”

“The Cape? So soon,” he said. “But then, I no longer have any concept of time.” Although he was in pain he wanted to delay Prescott’s intention to drug him again. He recognised the necessity but it was a blessed relief to experience clarity of mind again.

“We will be in England before you know it,” Prescott said.

“I intend to start afresh, Prescott, now the army will no longer have me,” he said. “I refuse to become the useless second son.”

“There is only room for one useless son in your family and your brother fills that position admirably.”

“He is the earl now,” Captain Morris said. “Apparently that means he serves his purpose.”

Prescott gave a half smile. “The birth order in your family has its deficiencies.”

“He would not have survived in the army,” Morris replied. “Which would have been fortunate for me.” He closed his eyes, the new-found strength and clarity waning rapidly. “Prescott?”

“You will have to sit up,” Prescott replied as he produced a small bottle. Captain Morris did as he was told, albeit very slowly, and took the bottle. It was about time he started dosing himself.

He then lay back down with a smile. “This stops when we return to England.” He needed it to survive the journey back. He was well aware of the implications of that necessity but now was not the place or time to remedy it. “Otherwise I shall become quite the opium fiend,” he muttered as he drifted back into the realm of unconsciousness. At least Prescott was there to deal with the insane ramblings that were bound to return.

(Philip Morris is a character from a Pride and Prejudice continuation I have written – The Matter Of Courtship)

Graph 4.1: Average death rates of Halifax in quinquennial periods, 1877-1901

1881

1882

1893

1901

AVERAGE

21.7

26.6

21.6

18.6

London

21.2

21.4

21.3

17.6

Brighton

19.0

21.7

18.4

16.5

Portsmouth

19.7

21.5

18.2

17.9

Norwich

19.5

20.6

19.3

18.7

Plymouth

19.9

21.2

21.3

17.9

Bristol

19.6

19.2

18.9

16.0

Wolverhampton

21.2

22.4

23.3

16.9

Birmingham

20.0

20.9

22.0

20.5

Leicester

21.6

20.0

20.0

15.9

Nottingham

22.4

23.7

18.5

18.5

Liverpool

26.7

26.5

27.3

22.3

Manchester

25.5

26.8

24.9

22.1

Salford

22.6

23.2

24.1

21.7

Oldham

22.8

24.7

21.0

19.6

Bradford

19.7

21.2

21.0

16.8

Leeds

21.4

23.2

22.3

19.3

Sheffield

21.1

21.7

22.3

20.4

Hull

23.8

23.2

21.8

18.6

Sunderland

20.9

26.5

22.5

21.4

Newcastle

21.8

23.1

21.0

21.9

Halifax

21.4

20.3

17.4

16.4

West Ham

N/A

N/A

18.9

18.1

Croydon

N/A

N/A

16.3

12.9

Cardiff

N/A

N/A

19.7

15.8

Swansea

N/A

N/A

19.6

18.6

Derby

N/A

N/A

18.2

15.2

Birkenhead

N/A

N/A

20.5

18.7

Bolton

N/A

N/A

24.1

18.2

Burnley

N/A

N/A

21.9

19.0

Blackburn

N/A

N/A

23.3

19.5

Preston

N/A

N/A

26.4

21.0

Huddersfield

N/A

N/A

17.2

16.7

Gateshead

N/A

N/A

19.3

21.6

*Annual rate per 1000 living

Table 4.1: Death rates for 33 of the largest English towns. Taken from the Halifax Medical Officer of Health reports for 1883, 1893, and 1901.

Bibliography

Primary:

Censuses:

‘Census of Yorkshire’, 1851.

‘Census of Yorkshire’, 1861.

‘Census of Yorkshire’, 1871.

‘Census of Yorkshire’, 1881.

‘Census of Yorkshire’, 1891.

‘Census of Yorkshire’, 1901, all accessed at http://www.fromweavertoweb.org, last accessed 21/02/2008. The website is an online version of the Halifax Archive Service at Halifax Central Library, West Yorkshire.

W. Ranger, Report to the General Board of Health, on a Preliminary Inquiry as to the Sewage, Drainage and Supply of Water, and the Sanitary Conditions of the Inhabitants of the Town of Halifax in the County of York, 1851, http://www.fromweavertoweb.org, last accessed 03/03/2008.

Halifax County Borough, Halifax County Borough Council Minutes and Committee Proceedings January 3 – December 23 1881, http://www.fromweavertoweb.org, last accessed 13/03/2008.